


Just Men

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: A Distinct Lack of Sewers, Alternate Universe - Les Misérables, City of London - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Gen, Inspector Javert is Not a Golem, International Policing, M/M, Paris Era, Pre-Seine, Regrettable Footnotes, The Fauchelevents Flee to London, Victor Hugo Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9220052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Sir Samuel Vimes of the London City Watch entertains a visit from Inspector Javert, regarding a certain convict who has fled on a ship across the sea.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splintered_Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splintered_Star/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Splintered_Star, from one Discworld/LM fan to another! I'm not entirely sure of your position on crack, or crossovers, but I hope you enjoy this attempt at both ;)
> 
> Beta by Sir_Bedevere (who is Sam Vimes' biggest admirer <3).

It was the year of our Lord 1832, and Sir Samuel Vimes had held the position of Commander of the London City Watch for over five years. He had been knighted concurrently with that promotion, so entirely against his will that it had almost taken an ear off; still later, after England’s campaign against the Ottoman Empire, he had been arm-twisted into accepting an appointment, most fittingly, as Duke of Armargh [1]. 

Although these details have no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it would not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumours and remarks which had accompanied his appointment.

It was no secret that Sir Samuel had been the son of Thomas Vimes, an undistinguished man of little importance, nor that he claimed that infamous regicide Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes as an ancestor. In school, he had been a custodian of the blackboards, a prestigious position in English social hierarchy. He was not particularly well formed, rather short in stature, inelegant and ungracefully dressed, his expression a perpetual scowl; he had the inconvenient habit of speaking his mind to everyone regardless of their rank. It was said of him that in the early days of his career, he had been Brought Low by a woman, and that he had never met a pint of ale with which he did not attempt congress. 

What hand had redeemed him in society, that he would have been permitted to hold office and even to marry a woman of reputable standing, even if she was not as young as she once was? No one could have told: all that was known was, after the unfortunate affair with the dragons and the attempted rebellion against Patrician Vetinari, Sir Samuel had been appointed to the highest office in London’s constabulary. It was said he enjoyed Vetinari's confidence and complete trust; the question was what else of London's dour, elegant Patrician such a disagreeable man could hope to enjoy. 

Since Sir Samuel’s appointment, he had brought to justice poisoners and the wastrel sons of London’s peers and jingoistic gentryfolk alike. He had survived several attempts on his life, the advent of the steam engine, and, thus far, fatherhood. Despite his aforesaid drawbacks, he was said to be a very just man indeed.

It was well known that an important aspect of policing techniques in these modern times involved a cordial exchange of best practices with other countries. The exchange programme with the Watch’s French counterparts that had been implemented in the previous year had proved an unmitigated success. The French Gendarmerie's envoy, Captain Emile, had caused a welcome revolution in the Watch's in-house catering, delivering toothsome police canteen food with a side serving of avec.

Such positive experiences brought with them a closer level of engagement across the once-isolating waters of the English Channel. When the official clacks from Commandant Fournier at the Prefecture of Police in Paris arrived, notifying him of Inspector Javert’s request for cross-border assistance, Sir Samuel had sighed as enthusiastically as was his wont, that was to say not in the least enthusiastically, but had thereafter summoned his senior officers in order to formally welcome their visitor to the City of London -- a city with a million inhabitants but no sewers concerning which one could usefully expound.

The Parisian inspector was a curious specimen. He had the most impressive scowl Sir Samuel had ever seen, and as had previously been noted Sir Samuel was no stranger to scowling. The Inspector's uniform was spotless, his brass buttons polished. He was tall, and his tall hat made him look even taller notwithstanding its distinct lack of pointedness at its end. His skin was very pale and held the pallor of a vampire’s, albeit a vampire of the conventional Transylvanian tradition and not that of the well-meaning but far less dignified denizens of the London League of Temperance. 

His scowl took stock of Sir Samuel’s senior officers, whom Sir Samuel had to admit were accustomed to being on the receiving end of such scepticism, at least at the outset [2].

“TO WHAT DO WE OWE THE PLEASURE OF THIS VISIT,” Sergeant Colon enquired. It was the widely-held belief of Englishmen that speaking their native language as loudly and slowly as possible miraculously facilitated its full comprehension. Needless to say, Englishmen were mistaken in this respect as they were in many others.

The Inspector frowned and responded in French. Emile listened, pulled out the notebook assigned to him by the Watch, conferred at length with his scowling countryman, and eventually issued a translation that was agreeable to all parties. 

“I see,” Sir Samuel said eventually, pinching the bridge of his nose in the universal gesture of superior officers suffering patiently in the line of duty. “He says he pursued this criminal to Calais, and then to a ship across the sea, and he believes the man has fetched upon our shores?”

“He swears by the stars that is so.”

“The criminal's name is _John McJohn_? Clearly this is an alias of some kind?”

“Sir, according to the Inspector, that is in fact the man's real name.”

Sir Samuel was compelled to pinch still harder. “And what were the man’s crimes?

This provoked a torrent of clipped French. The Inspector’s eyes flashed like fire, his hands clenched in stony fists. Sir Samuel was not given to flights of fancy, but he wondered if Commandant Fournier might have taken a leaf out of the London Watch’s instructional materials and brought a golem into the employ of the Paris Police. It would certainly explain any number of things, not least the Inspector’s unnatural posture.

Captain Emile made voluminous notes. As before, the explication of said notes took a substantially longer time than the Inspector’s vehement but fortunately briefer remarks. 

After the first ten minutes, Captain Carrot, Sir Samuel’s second in command, pulled up a chair. One would pause to note at this juncture that Captain Carrot was by birth the rightful King of Britain, but it would be beyond the scope of the events narrated herein to embark on the unexpurgated details of the Captain’s claim to the throne. Suffice it to say for present purposes that Sir Samuel esteemed the young man greatly, and it was not solely for his proficiency with a sword or his ability to retrieve it from any number of stones.

“Let me get this to rights,” Sir Samuel said, when Emile’s translation had finally come to an end. 

Beneath his breastplate, a great foment was building. He felt certain it was outrage and not indigestion, notwithstanding that his last meal had been a bun purchased from one C. Dibbler, merchant and purveyor of victuals occasionally complying with the Public Health Ordinance of 1830. 

“This man has served _nineteen years_ of penal labour for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. Later he surrendered himself to custody rather than let an innocent man be imprisoned for his crimes. Then in 1823 while back in prison, he rescued a sailor from a ship, fell into the ocean himself, and is presumed dead; in fact, the Paris police believe that he is dead. But Inspector Javert has nevertheless been pursuing him anyway?” 

“Yes,” the Inspector said, in the English tongue. “The man is alive. I will see him safe behind bars.”

Sir Samuel's officers could be forgiven for looking at each other in confusion. Perhaps there was something lost in the translation. To be sure, the bars with which they were more familiar in London could be perhaps used to secure criminals, but very inefficiently and only after the criminals had had much to drink. 

“It sounds like wishful thinking to me, Commander,” Captain Carrot pronounced in an aside that was inaudible to approximately no one present.

“It sounds like _l’amour_ , is what it sounds like,” Corporal Nobbs volunteered, signalling his meaning blatantly with his eyebrows. Sir Samuel did not recall inviting the Corporal to attend this meeting with Inspector Javert, but Nobbs had the peculiar habit of turning up when his presence was least expected, as indeed was the custom of the proverbial counterfeit coinage of England [3].

“Restrain yourself, Nobby,” Sir Samuel admonished. “We are in a police station, not the Agony Aunts’ Street of Negotiable Affection [4].” 

Well was Sir Samuel aware that England had not yet learned how best to negotiate such affections, such that quests for compensated companionship often involved covering oneself in shame after the deed was done, or worse, came to a premature ending due to an insufficiency of ready funds. Nor had Englishmen managed to borrow from their French counterparts that supremely delicate ability to confide their romantic attachments to another in a succinct and successful way: particularly when the object of attachment was, for instance, another man’s sweetheart, or might not reciprocate the man’s feelings, or was a party in respect of which an attachment would not at all be seemly. 

Indeed, Sir Samuel might himself have considered his own attachment to a certain gentleman of the highest of standing, and the lack of propriety, seemliness, and indeed decency in their various joinings of one nature or the other. For had not that gentleman once pursued him and kept pursuing him when all others had been convinced of his untimely demise, and had not ceased in his search until he, Samuel Vimes, had been found safe at last, even though no bars had been involved?

Still, it would appear that not all Frenchmen were as well versed in that delicate language of affection as might otherwise have been advertised across the Channel. This particular Frenchman might even rival the English in the province of love and constipated longing.

The Corporal subsided, although he did not appear particularly repentant. Sir Samuel returned his glare to the Inspector. One might allow him a pause in order to recollect his sense of outrage.

Then he said, “Emile, please tell the Inspector that, in the name of international comity, I am obliged to assist in apprehending a fugitive from French justice. But in this particular case, I am not persuaded that any justice would be served by hunting down and apprehending this particular Mr. McJohn. He has served his sentence, for long enough that I believe he deserves to be left alone. That is, if he is alive and is indeed in the City in the first place.” 

Inspector Javert’s brow furled as if with the fury of a thundercloud, but he held his peace. He was obviously not unaware that while the long arm of French law might prevail within the boundaries of that country itself, no such arm could be of sufficient longtitude to prevail upon England’s shores. 

Whiskers bristling, he murmured something to Emile, who for once conveyed the message with alacrity.

“The Inspector says, that being the case, he will remain here as well, until the man is brought to justice.”

“Most definitely _l’amour_ ,” pronounced the Corporal, once again deploying his own far less bristling facial hair in a manner that would cause offence in most priests of good standing.

Sir Samuel sighed again. As one might imagine, the circumstances appeared to give him no option other than to welcome Javert to the City Watch. 

He did harbour the hope that the Inspector would eventually lay hands on the criminal, to seize and devour him, that is to say, arrest him -- if only so that he, Samuel Vimes, could confirm that which his finely-honed powers of deduction had already surmised. 

In any case, the Commander felt certain that Inspector Javert would have several things to teach the Watch about justice, and the French art of always getting one's man.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening paragraphs from Les Miserables Book I, "A Just Man".
> 
> [1]: [A small town in Northern Ireland so named because you'd have to twist their arm to get anyone to live there](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Armagh).
> 
> [2] Upon further reflection, Sir Samuel would be compelled to acknowledge that the opportunity of making their further acquaintance did not always improve matters, particularly in the instance of Corporal Nobby Nobbs.
> 
> [3] A bad penny, which only exists in the English context.
> 
> [4] It was well known not just in England but also amongst the seasoned travellers across the Continent that the street in question, its proper name being Brewer Street, featured not only the premises of the Guild of Seamstresses but also the Pink Pussycat Club, and its rival establishment, the Skunk Club. It must be emphasised that patrons looking for various diversions of an evening would be well advised that the Blue Cat Club was in a different part of town and was an entirely different animal altogether.


End file.
